


Ours is not to Reason Why

by Emeryael



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Brainwashing, Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Steve Rogers, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26908885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeryael/pseuds/Emeryael
Summary: The Asset knows that he owes his life to Hydra and in all his efforts, strives to be worthy of the honor given to him. When he is ordered to train a new recruit, the Asset is confused by this task, but throws himself wholeheartedly into the effort. But something about this recruit stirs up feelings the Asset doesn’t fully understand.A “What if Hydra rescued Steve from the ice?” AU.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

Something is going on. The Asset still hasn’t worked out what. Barefooted, he paces the concrete floor of his cell, his box as others call it, trying to work out what is happening.

“ _Time to put the devil back in his box!”_ Rumlow’s voice echoes in the back of his head. The Asset ignores it and focuses on the question at hand.

There’s a protocol that has to be followed. The Asset knows he did his part. The target is dead—he made sure of it. He always makes sure.

After killing the target, he returned to base and gave his report. The Handler said he did a good job. The Handler seldom gave compliments, so the Asset knew he must have earned it. Then the doctors took care of him, but rather than put him back on ice after a few hours, the Asset was sent to his cell and told to wait.

Maybe this is punishment. Maybe he had acted too proud in response to the compliment. But the Asset hasn’t been made to do anything except sit in his cell. If he was being punished, there would be pain involved. The Asset slumps against the wall. Once again, he reviews recent events, hoping to work out if he had malfunctioned or disobeyed in some way.

Sometimes, after a mission, the Handler turns him over to the strike team and lets them use him, hurt him. The Asset survives as he always has, by thinking of Hydra and his duties. The pain, the humiliation…it’s important, they tell him. What the strike team does to him, it is necessary to keep him from becoming prideful, and it helps with team morale. Pride weakens him, makes him malfunction.

Normally after all this, they spray him down again, using some kind of disinfectant that stings and burns his eyes. Then they put him in the chair, administer his treatments, then put him in his capsule. The ice claims him, and he sleeps until Hydra needs him again.

That’s how things are supposed to go. By now, the Asset should be asleep under a blanket of ice. However, several hours have passed, and he is still awake.

At first, the Asset doesn’t mind it so much. It was a rare honor for him to be given so much free time. Usually when he was awake, he was either working on a mission, training, or undergoing procedures for maintenance or repair. Sometimes, that meant deep conditioning, which was so much worse than his usual procedures.

At the thought of deep conditioning, the air becomes stuck in his throat, choking him. The world is black and dark, tight as a coffin. Asset digs his flesh fingers into the concrete floor of his cell, focusing on the pain until his brain clears. He can breathe again.

The Asset tries to remember if he had done something to deserve deep conditioning. He couldn’t think of anything, but the Handler decides these things. The Handler is responsible for his maintenance, which also includes discipline. Whatever happens, he would endure it as well as he can.

The cell was small. The Asset could stand in the center of the room, extend his arms, and touch both walls. It was nearly as wide as he is tall. There wasn’t much room for anything besides the mattress, the toilet, and the sink.

Time for the Asset is a loose, slippery concept. There are no windows that look outdoors in his cell. The light switch is kept outside—the Handler decides whether he gets to have light. Periodically, the slot at the bottom of the door opens and a tray is shoved through. The slot only opens from the other side. When food is given to him, he eats. Until then, he waits.

Near the top of the door, is a small, square window, but the Asset is not allowed to use it, only the Handler and the guards. But as time wears on and the Asset has exhausted the few means available to him to occupy himself, that little window becomes a powerful temptation.

Maybe the Handler is debating whether he should undergo deep conditioning and is using the window as a test. If he disobeys…

He tries not to think about it. It hurts to think about it. Still, his curiosity is too strong.

The Asset crawls to the cell door, pressing his ear against the slot, trying to gather whatever information he could.

He could barely hear their voices, much less what they were talking about.

In Hydra, it is very important that the Asset obeys. He has learned to read the cues of those around him, without looking them directly in the eye—he is not allowed to look someone directly in the eye, unless ordered to. As a result, the Asset has learned to gauge his Handler’s moods and the moods of those around him via the smallest details, the tone of their voice, the sound of their breath, the way they move their hands and feet.

Something big is going on. Everyone seems concerned about something, but the Asset still has not worked out what.

A man screams. The Asset can make out the sound of electricity and hydraulics. Someone is in his chair. The Asset tilts his head in confusion. Why would someone be in his chair?

Before long, he hears shouts and curses, the hard skin-on-skin contact of a fight.

The temptation to look through the window becomes stronger than ever. The Asset resists, until he hears the deep thud of something big slamming against his cell door. After that, not even the fear of punishment stops him from scrambling to his feet and peering through the window.

A man had slammed against his door.

He is naked and badly beaten—his entire body a swollen mess of purple and black bruises. Many would not be able to move after such a beating, but the man still fights.

The guards surround the man. The guards soon club him into submission, using the butts of their rifles and electric stun batons. The man is dragged away. The Asset is not sure where they are taking him. Before they drag him away, the Asset glimpses the man’s eyes. Even in the mess of bruises and swelling, they stand out, the color of the sky on a bright-spring morning.

He continues to peer through the small window, until he sees Rumlow looking back at him.

The Asset immediately drops to the floor. Rumlow is going to tell the Handler. The Handler will punish him for this. Disobedience of any kind must always be punished.

_“The smallest crack in a dam can cause a massive flood.”_

Whatever the punishment, the Asset will bear it as best he could.

Hours later, the lights turn on in his cell. The Asset readies himself. The door opens and the Handler walks in, Rumlow following him.

“Stand!” The Handler’s voice bears its usual cold brusqueness, but something has changed. A nervous energy flows through the Handler’s body. His hands are shaking, despite his best efforts to hide it.

The Asset climbs to his feet.

Rumlow’s cold gray eyes stare into his. The Asset swallows. The Handler often uses Rumlow as his enforcer to punish the Asset whenever he stepped out of line. The Asset keeps his eyes lowered and waits.

The Handler’s tone of voice is calm and congenial. “I’m sure you heard all that noise earlier.”

Before the Asset could speak, the Handler continued.

“A few days ago, a team of scientists discovered and rescued a super soldier who had been trapped inside a block of ice for over fifty years.Thanks to our scientists and doctors, we were able to free him from the ice and wake him up, without the subject sustaining any brain damage or loss in his ability to function. Unfortunately, as you could plainly see, all those decades spent in the ice, has rendered him mentally unstable. We hope to heal this with time and treatment and be able to put his talents to good use for the cause.”

The Asset nods patiently. Hydra has some of the best scientists and doctors around. They will fix the young man. If not…the choking feeling grabs his throat again. For a brief moment, he is in Siberia, struggling against an opponent, faster and stronger than him. The sound his body makes when slammed against bulletproof plexiglass…

He takes a quick, deep breath. He hopes the Handler didn’t notice that he had fallen back again. It was something that happened to the Asset. He would recall strange flickers, images and sounds he couldn’t really explain. Sometimes they were bad ones. Most days, these brief pictures and sounds were pleasant ones that gave the Asset great joy, even if he couldn’t really understand them.

They usually went away when they put him in the chair or the capsule again. It was best to just let himself enjoy or endure these moments, while they were there and not pry too deeply into them. He knew better than to ask questions. Questions only led to pain.

The Handler gives a short smile before he speaks again. “Regarding the man you just saw, Soldier, if we manage to repair him, he will become your mission. It will be your goal to work with him, train him so he will be able to exercise his full skills on behalf of Hydra. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The Asset is somewhat puzzled by the Handler’s words for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, but it doesn’t matter. Hydra will take care of things. Hydra always has.

“Good.” The Handler leans closer. “In a few minutes, the doctors and technicians are going to prepare you for cryofreeze. If we have need of your services, we shall call upon you again. Until then, Hail Hydra!” The Handler leaves the cell.

True to his word, the doctors and technicians send the soldiers to bring him to the chair.

He is given his last physical exam and they hose him down, before putting him in the chair one last time. Then he is returned to the capsule.

His world soon is flooded with ice and dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset meets his new student.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we get to the AU aspects, how the world of the MCU has changed. Basically, without Steve to be the leader/center who holds the team together, the Battle of New York plays out much differently.

Waking up…it happens in stages for the Asset. The world becomes bright, red, and hot. The hard glass retreats with a hiss. Soon, the Asset shivers as he is carried on the backs of the soldiers.

The Chair waits for him. The Handler stands on one side, while the doctors and technicians are on the other.

The cuffs wrap around him, the hydraulics move the metal plates in place and—there is nothing but pain. He is on fire—he smells himself burning.

He knows he is screaming—his throat and chest raw with pain—but until the plates retract, he cannot hear himself.

“Okay now we wait a bit for the next round.”

One of the technicians is talking to another. His eyes burn too much to make out who is speaking to whom. It doesn’t matter. The only person who matters, is the Handler.

“Does he always scream so loud?”

“‘Fraid so. You’ll get used to it. It’s part of the job. ‘Sides, I heard it doesn’t hurt that badly; it’s just being a drama queen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the serum grants it some insensitivity to pain. It does feel pain, but not on the level you or I might.”

The Asset breathes heavily.

Every time they put him in the Chair, he prays for it to kill him. If he is dead, there wouldn’t be any more wipes. If he was dead, they would lift his body out of it and take it somewhere dark and silent.

They would not put him in the Chair if he was dead.

It is a fault in his programming. He tells no one about it.

The plates come down again. And the Asset is screaming.

Eventually it is over. The wipes are done. The doctors finish their exams and step behind the Chair. The Handler comes closer.

The Handler moves with a newfound enthusiasm that he didn’t have before. “Good morning, Soldier.”

“Ready to comply.” Even with his brain swimming in electricity, the words spill easily from his lips. The Asset can’t remember a time when they didn’t.

The Handler speaks. “Do you remember the conversation we had six months ago?”

The Asset shakes his head, his long hair covering his eyes. “No, sir.” He pauses, trying to gauge the Handler’s mood. He hopes he has given a sufficient answer.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t expect you to,” the Handler says.

Another man walks up and takes his place besides the Handler. The Asset hasn’t seen him before. He is wearing a starched white lab coat, which means he is one of the doctors, not the technicians. Technicians take care of his arm and put him in the chair. Doctors deal with either his body or brain. The Asset wonders which this man will take care of.

The Handler continues. “This man is Dr. Oscar Sendler. He is a neuroscientist of considerable skill, which is why he will oversee the conditioning of your partner.”

The Asset frowns in confusion at the word “partner.” He has worked with the strike team and other forces from time to time, but the usage of the word seems to imply something different. The Asset wants to ask, but he is not supposed to speak unless spoken to. The Handler decides what he needs to know.

The Handler clears his throat then continues. “Six months ago, we rescued a young soldier from the ice. Unfortunately, after being frozen for so long, the soldier was mentally unstable. But our eternal leader, Armin Zola, recognized his value and believed he could be rehabilitated. I’m glad to tell you he was right.”

A strange image comes to the Asset’s mind, a memory of a naked man slamming against the door to his cell.

The Handler continues. “Right now, I need you to put him through some exercises, do some light sparring. In time, he will be placed in your custody, and it will be your job to train him.”

The Asset’s brain swims with confusion. He has never been placed in charge of anything. The Handler is the one who decides things. The Handler decides and the Asset obeys. That is the way of things.

The Handler turns to the technicians. “Get him dressed.”

The Asset can dress himself but is seldom allowed to. He doesn’t like it, but it does no good to complain. He stands still as the suit he wears under cryofreeze, is removed and new clothing is placed on him, raising or lowering his limbs when ordered. The strike force remains at their stations, guns at the ready in case he runs.

They haven’t dressed him in the tac suit which is something of a blessing. His tactical suit is terribly uncomfortable, especially in the heat.

The Asset wears a set of grey joggers and a white tank. As he is led down the hallway to the training area, he lets himself enjoy the way the clothing feels on his skin, how light and soft it is. It has the simple, clean smell of soap and water. It comforts him.

The man, the person who is to be his partner, is waiting for him, his body stiff as a ramrod, perched and waiting, the same man who was slammed against his door all those months ago.

His bruising has healed, save for a massive, purple-black, crescent-shaped one around his eyes. His eyes are dead and dull. When the Asset enters the room, he barely lifts his head in acknowledgment.

The Asset takes his place on the mat and frowns, unsure what to do next. He looks his student over, trying to read him, but his face and body reveal nothing.

“Are you ladies just going to stand there or are you gonna fight?” Rumlow’s coarse voice echoes through the gym.

The Asset decides to begin with the basics, a simple one-on-one sparring session. He steadies himself and looks his protégé in the eye. “We are going to fight. Hands and feet only, no other weapons. Your goal is to knock me off the mat. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” His opponent keeps his eyes lowered as he speaks. The technicians have done good work. It took the Asset much longer to learn to obey.

It feels odd to have spoken so many words. The Asset has long learned not to speak unless spoken to, to say nothing more than “yes, sir” or “no, sir” unless told otherwise. But he doesn’t let himself linger on this sensation for long; he has a job to do.

He shifts into a fighting stance. His protégé does the same. Then the Asset gives his order. “Fight!”

And they do.

His opponent is a whirlwind of movement, continually punching and kicking, modifying his strategy quickly. The Asset’s blood sings. Fighting him is like fighting himself, but the sweaty struggle of it all, the way his opponent’s eyes shine with zeal. It’s oddly beautiful.

At first, the Asset holds back on using the metal arm. He doesn’t know why. But when his opponent comes dangerously close to knocking him off the mat, the Asset relents and starts using it.

It becomes much more difficult for his opponent to land a solid blow against him, with the metal arm blocking him, but he still gives a solid performance; the Asset is unable to relax in the slightest.

Then he hears the Handler call out. “At ease!”

They both cease fighting and stand, awaiting further orders.

The Handler turns towards him. He swallows. “Now that the two of you have had a chance to warm up a little, it’s time to fill you in on some new information. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of it, which is why we are taking you to Dr. Zola.”

At the mention of his name, the Asset’s throat tightens. He does not like Zola. The Asset knows that Zola saved his life and he should be grateful, but Zola scares him.

The Handler goes on ahead. The Asset, his student, and the strike team follow.

The Asset is used to people speaking around him, sometimes the strike team, sometimes the technicians, or the doctors. They gossip, talking about who has broken up and gotten back together. They talk about friends and family, how their kid made the honor roll this year. They talk about entertainment, movies, tv shows, and video games. The Asset is used to being at the center of all this talk. Still, he often catches some information that surprises or interests him, and he has to force himself to remain silent.

“‘Sides I don’t even know why Zola keeps these guys around. With the helicarriers in the air, able to scratch off anyone we want, why bother those two?”

The Asset frowns in confusion. Helicarriers? What did that word mean? He lowers his head. He shouldn’t concern himself with questions. Hydra tells him what he needs to know.

When he enters the room, Armin Zola’s face is staring back at him. The Asset tolerates the uncomfortable pain that arises in his stomach without complaint. His partner follows, emitting a quick draw of breath, before remembering to keep his eyes on the floor. He will likely be punished for this later.

_A small crack can destroy a mighty dam._

They point him to the floor. He and his partner take their seats.

Armin Zola’s eyes feel everywhere. The Asset knows his first handler is dead, but in a way, he never left. He is omniscient.

Zola speaks. “Good morning to you both. I trust that my people have been performing proper maintenance on you.

“Now Winter, Captain, there is much we need to discuss, so I expect you to pay close attention. And Captain, I would appreciate it if we can get through this discussion without another one of your outbursts.”

Outbursts? The Asset frowns in confusion at this word. Then he remembers the massive bruise his partner had over one eye, when they were training. It has mostly faded away, but shadows of it remain.

The Asset shakes his head. His student really should have known better. But malfunctions happen. Luckily, there’s no shortage of doctors to fix both of them.

“Six months ago, New York City was invaded by aliens. As the fight wore on, our leaders made the painful decision to nuke the city to save the planet.”

The air rushes out of the Asset’s lungs.

His partner is even more shocked. His eyes widen and he trembles all over, only stopping when Rumlow hits him with the butt of his rifle.

“Do you want to go back for more conditioning, asshole?!” Rumlow is practically shouting in his face.

His partner shrinks away.

“Then I suggest you behave!”

Zola watches with his usual air of nonchalance. “Are we quite done yet?” When no one says another word, he continues. “As terrible as this tragedy was, some good has come from it. SHIELD has a freedom it has never known before. The people are so afraid of future alien invasions that we have established a new organization to address potential threats from other worlds, known as Sentient World Observation and Response Department, SWORD for short.

And thanks to Project Insight, we have eyes and ears all over the world. With the mere press of a button, we can eliminate any threats to the order we have put in place.”

The Asset’s head is swimming with information. There is so much for him to learn. He needs to learn all this to better understand the new role he will play for Hydra.

“It is true that we know have untold weapons at our command, but we haven’t completely moved away from the need for soldiers like you. The helicarriers are an invaluable tool, but sometimes you need a scalpel, not a saw to solve a problem.”

Zola’s gaze falls on him.

The Asset makes sure to show proper deference.

“Mr. Pierce has, no doubt, spoken of the new role you are to play, Soldier. Am I correct?”

Dr. Zola’s words demand a prompt response. “Yes, sir,” the Asset says. He waits for Zola to say more, but he does not.

The Asset soon realizes that he is expected to say more. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and speaks. “I was told that I am supposed to train the man sitting beside me, help him to become a proper soldier for Hydra.” The Asset hopes his words were sufficient.

Zola smiles. “My men have done good work with you. May you prove as worthy a teacher as you are a soldier.” He pauses and turns his attentions to them. “The two of you will be called upon to perform many missions on behalf of Hydra and in time, one of you will be chosen to participate in the most dangerous mission of all: Project Resurrection.”

“Is there any more you need of them, Dr. Zola?” Pierce’s voice easily filled the small room.

“No, for now I am finished. I have already set up a training regimen; all that is needed is implementation. I expect it to be followed to the letter. A small crack can destroy a mighty dam, after all.”

The Asset is dismissed and is led down the hall. His partner follows close behind him. The Asset knows he is to keep his eyes forward, but he can’t resist casting a glance back at his student.

“Do you have something you want to say?” Pierce’s voice is steady, measured.

“Maybe.” The Asset purses his lips in concentration. It never stops feeling strange to speak so much. He must not abuse this privilege. “He is my student, but…I was just wondering what I am supposed to call him.”

“He is your captain,” Pierce says.

“Captain…” the Asset repeats the word. A strange feeling stirs inside him as the word leaves his chest.

He doesn’t see much of his student the rest of the day. They are separated—he goes for training, learning to use new weapons and technology. He is good; he learns quickly.

He wishes he could say the same about his pupil. The Asset hears him scream as they put him in the chair and wipe him. He can hear the screaming no matter where he is in the building. It is wrenching to hear. The Asset shakes his head sadly. He hopes his student learns his lesson. Discipline must be maintained.

When he is back in his cell at the end of the day, lying on his mattress, the Asset hears the Handler, Dr. Zola, and the other doctors talking.

“I just don’t see how he’s worth the trouble. We’ve had a much more difficult time bringing him under control. Why not just stick with the Asset?”

“Because,” Dr. Zola said, “Our Master has decreed it so. It is because of his wisdom and strength we’ve survived as long as we have. If he says we need both of them, then we need both of them.”

“We’ll eventually just need one of them anyway,” the Handler said.

The Asset lies in his bed, pondering these strange words. He is not certain what they mean. Is the Handler going to kill him or the Captain?

He bows his head. Whatever happens, he will obey. His job is to obey. His life is not his own. Hydra created him; Hydra decides his fate. Whatever they decide, the Asset will obey.

The next morning, the Handler tells him that he is going on ice. “Don’t worry; it’s strictly a matter of transportation. We need to take you to your new home.”

The Asset nods.

He endures the chair and whatever procedures the Handler asks of him without complaint. He does not ask all the strange questions echoing in his head. It is not his business to ask questions.

The ice forms a spiderweb on his glass capsule as the blackness claims him once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset and the Captain visit the Red Room. The Asset continues to struggle with strange images from before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so far for all the kind remarks.  
> TW for sexual assault. It’s not explicit and it’s brief, but I thought I should give a heads up to be courteous.

They wake him again.

The Asset is carried on the shoulders of armed soldiers, bare feet scraping against the rough concrete floor. Then he is put in the chair.

As the plates lift and the terrible brightness recedes, the Asset studies the Handler’s face and tries to gauge his mood.

“Good morning, Soldier,” the Handler says.

“Ready to comply.”

On the surface, this base looks the same as all the others, but something is off, and he doesn’t know why. A strange energy hums and thrums through this base, something dark, old, and hungry.

The Handler’s attention is focused rock-solid on him—he must realize the Asset’s curiosity.

The Asset shifts in his chair. He should pay better attention. He belongs to the Handler and the Handler matters above all else.

The Handler speaks. He is pleased that the Asset immediately remembers and understands the new task assigned to him: training Captain. “He has been awake for a couple of weeks now. We’ve been working with him mostly on vehicles and weapons training. The advent of SWORD has given us unprecedented access to funds, which has led to the development of many new kinds of weapons and vehicles in which you will be trained. Eventually, we will take you to Captain and grant you the chance to evaluate him personally, but for now, we need to show you around the new base.”

The Asset is taken to what is to be his room. When he sees it, he nearly cries with joy.

Even when he has been good, the Asset’s cell never has had much by way of comforts. Sometimes he is given sheets and blankets for his mattress, but the conditions remain the same: a mattress, a metal sink, and a toilet.

Now? They have given him an actual bed with a frame, box spring, sheets, and blankets. The Asset stares with wonder at it all. His room remains small, but there are so many luxuries in there he has never known: a small nightstand, a soft square rug, a small mirror which hung over the sink. He opens the drawers of the nightstand.

They have given him new clothes, freshly washed, with the smell of clean. One is a pair of loose white pajamas, while the other, is a tank with a pair of grey joggers. The Asset does not know why he has been given these things. He vows to work harder than before to prove himself worthy.

“Well, are you going to stand around with that dumb look on your face or are you going to get dressed.” Rumlow shoves him towards one of the walls.

The Asset manages to catch himself. He stands in the center of the room and begins to undress, clothing himself in the tank and grey joggers. They feel as soft as they smell.

The Captain is a quick study, mastering languages and firearms with ease. His already prodigious combat skills have been greatly enhanced; he has learned several styles of armed and unarmed combat. He is a beast in a fight and even with the added strength provided by the metal arm, the Asset is kept on his toes. He hasn’t fought like this in a long time. Every sparring season leaves the Asset soaked in sweat, heart pounding a hard reveille in his chest.

Sometimes he wonders what he is supposed to teach the Captain. But the Asset knows he has been given a task and like with all the others, he strives to do it justice.

As they go about their day, the Handlers, Pierce and Dr. Sendler argue.

From what the Asset can tell, Pierce is mad that he is not going to serve as the Captain’s Handler. He tries to keep his distaste from showing on his face, but there’s only so much he can do to mask it.

“They’ve trained enough,” Sendler says, “at least for now. In any case, I am hardly advocating for much. Our Asset has worked with the Krasnaya Komnata in the past. We send the Asset and the Captain over, let them teach a few classes. It’ll give us a chance to see them in action, see how well they work together, and figure out what recalibrations are needed. Plus, if the madame delivers on her promises, we could find ourselves with an easier, less messy way to manage our assets.”

“You remember what happened the last time we sent the Asset over there?” Pierce says. “Lukin spent weeks having to recondition it.”

The Asset recalls something, a brief flicker of an image: a girl with red hair. It is soon gone like so many others, but it provides the Captain with enough of an opening to knock him to the mat.

Groaning in pain, the Asset raises himself onto one elbow. He barely manages to roll out the way of the Captain’s next strike.

Through all this, the Captain’s face remains entirely blank. But the Asset knows that inside, the Captain is already strategizing, reworking whatever plans he has. He slips out of the Captain’s reach and delivers a right hook that connects, knocking him back.

Still as he fights, the Asset cannot help but overhear bits and pieces of the conversation between Pierce and Sendler.

He does not like Dr. Sendler. He smiles too much. A line floats in his head, something about how he has a lean and hungry look. The Asset doesn’t remember where he heard these words, but they are true. He knows it deep down.

“AT EASE!” Pierce and Sendler step forward.

If Sendler has a hungry look about him, Pierce has a sour one.

The Asset guesses the conversation didn’t go how Pierce preferred it to go. He takes a sharp breath. He doesn’t think he has done anything to earn Pierce’s ire, but Pierce has a tendency to hit him when he is frustrated. The Asset reminds himself of the necessity of his mission, what he must endure to make it succeed.

The Asset tucks his hands behind his back and casts his eyes on the floor. This is protocol; this is how it is supposed to be. He hopes Captain understands this. He should. If he doesn’t, he will be beaten again.

“It has been decided. Tomorrow, the two of you will be dispatched on your first mission together. The Krasnaya Komnata has requested your presence. You will spend a few days instructing the students on two-man fighting styles. You leave tomorrow. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The Asset is pleased to hear Captain echo his words. He is learning.

Tomorrow, they will leave to train the students. The Asset is pleased to find out that he will not have to travel in the cryotube. He and Captain will have a small retinue with them consisting of a few doctors and a couple members of the strike team. They will spend a few days training the students, before returning back to the base.

They spend the rest of the day in training, working on drills, training together and separately. At the end of the day, after he has eaten and been hosed down, the Asset is shut inside his cell.

The small square window on the door is shut, and the Asset is plunged into darkness. It takes a few minutes for his eyes to adjust. Once they had, the Asset paces the confines of the cell, studying it from top to bottom.

He has been here before, the Asset realizes. But it was a long time ago, and his cell didn’t have anywhere near the luxuries it does now. The Asset remembers cold, rough concrete, remembers being naked, and the smell of piss. As he walks the cell, he notices chunks of concrete missing from the walls and scratch marks, all of which he knew he must have made, though he couldn’t remember. There is an overwhelming sense of grief and anger in these walls.

The red blinking light of the camera stands out in the sea of darkness. They are watching him; they are always watching him. But there’s something else, an energy thrumming through the walls and floors, a being with thousands of eyes, ancient beyond all measure, cold and hungry.

The Asset turns his back to the camera. He still feels the being’s eyes on him and knows there’s no escaping it, but the Asset has endured worse privations. He sits, cross-legged on the floor. Running his hand along the edge of the wall, he soon finds a small cavity.

He frowns. Something is tucked inside. He squeezes the fingers of his flesh hand into the crevice until they wrapped around an object. He pulls it from the wall.

It is too dark for him to see it. From what he can tell, it appears to be a folded or flattened piece of cardboard. As he studies it, a slim object slides out.

It is small, not much longer than his thumb. The Asset rolls it around in his hand. The object is shaped like a cylinder with a point on one end and metal at the other, but try though he may, the Asset can’t form a clear picture of it in his mind.

He slides both the cardboard and the object back inside the wall, vowing to study it further once he and Captain return from the Krasnaya Komnata.

He does not sleep peacefully in his new bed. It is too soft—he’s going to sink to the floor—and too warm. The sheets and blankets keep getting tangled around his legs. The Asset grits his teeth.

Most of the time, the Asset doesn’t dream; he only sleeps. But occasionally a few images rise from the depths of his shock-treated brain, not much more than pictures or sensations, but enough to intrigue him. They will likely go away soon, taken away by the drugs or the shocks, but they make the Asset smile for a moment.

_His hands both made of flesh, holding a blue-checked dishcloth. Blood on the cloth. A bloody nose. Split lips._

__Soon, however, something rises from the dark and seizes these images, dragging them down into the depths. It hurts him. The Asset lets out a choked cry. The cold hands release his brain.

He sits in the dark, rubbing his aching temples, still feeling like something had sliced his brain with an icy knife. It was gone now, but not really; it had only retreated.

The lights flash on in his room. The Asset leaps to his feet. The door has been removed from the small window, but the Asset stands at attention and keeps his eyes on the floor.

The door opens and in comes Pierce, followed by Rumlow.

“Good morning,” Pierce says.

Outside the cell, everyone is getting ready for the mission.

The Asset is ordered to strip. They hose him down and dress him in his tac suit. It is stiff and new. They stick the mask on his face, a miniature coffin lid on the lower part of his face.

Captain soon enters. He is dressed in black, the only color on his uniform being HYDRA’s logo, the tentacled monster spread blood-red across his chest. His black helmet bore a red H in the center of the forehead. Tension ripples through his limbs, muscles trembling with impatience.

The world has become a very different place with the helicarriers patrolling the skies, while Stark Industry drones deal with things closer to the streets. But the building that hosts the Krasnaya Komnata, the Red Room, didn’t look too different from how it had in the past.

The matron, the headmistress, Madame B., waits for them beside the door. Her carefully styled coiffure has turned entirely gray, but she looks much as she had before. She drums her long red fingernails against the door frame, her face bearing its usual bored expression.

“Oh good, you’re here. Took you long enough. The girls are already waiting for you. I’ll explain things as we go.” Her heels clack against the tile floor.

In some rooms, the students practice their languages. A teacher patrols the rows, ruler in hand, ready to swat the hands of those whose pronunciation isn’t sufficiently polished. In other rooms, the students train with weapons, knives and guns of all varieties, practicing on dummies and paper targets to ready themselves for living, breathing ones.

The room where the Asset and Captain are to teach, is a sizable one located deep within the building. Inside, the girls wait, bodies stiff in their black leotards, hair carefully styled into tight buns.

An image flickers through the Asset’s mind again: a girl with bright red hair. It is soon gone.

He and Captain lead the girls through a few forms. The girls are smart; they catch on quickly. Those who don’t, are quickly pulled aside and cursed out in Russian.

It still feels so strange to the Asset, being able to say so many words. It feels even stranger with the mask on his face, his hot breath causing him to sweat.

Much as he hates to admit it, Captain is better with the girls than he is, his voice clear and strong, brusque but not too harsh, as he adjusts their postures, lifting and moving their arms and legs as needed. The Asset decides to follow his lead and supplement his instructions.

They teach these girls, then the next class, then another, before finally getting a break.

In the past, the Red Room let the Asset sit in the cafeteria with the other girls when it was time to eat. Granted, it was at a table with his team alongside him, but it had still been strange, sitting and watching the girls eat and whisper too each other. An attendant stood close by to monitor conversations. The Red Room didn’t forbid the girls from talking to each other, but neither did they want them to become too chummy with one another.

But he and Captain were not going to eat with the students. Instead, they were pulled into a cramped room, given cartons of chalky milkshakes, and told to drink. The Asset shotguns them one right after the other, until he is done. Peering from the corner of his eyes, he tries to read whatever cues he can from his team. He needs to gauge not only his performance, but Captain’s as well. The Asset knows he will be held responsible if Captain doesn’t behave.

They spend several days at the school, teaching and instructing the girls. Soon, however they are called home. Before they are sent home, he, Captain, and the rest of the team are called into the headmistress’s office.

Madame B. stands by her desk. “Well, from the looks of things, you delivered on your part, so I shall deliver on mine. Wanda, could you please come to my office?”

A woman dressed in red steps into the room. Her eyes are large and sad, as she silently studies the Asset and Captain.

“This is Wanda. She is one of the survivors of Von Strucker’s Lot Six experiments, and since her arrival at the school, she has aided greatly in our work with the students. I’m sure she will serve you well.” Madame B. waves them off.

They leave her office with Wanda following close at their heels. The Asset tries to get a read on her, but she reveals nothing save for an overwhelming sadness.

The girls line up like obedient little soldiers and watch them leave. The Asset bows his head.

When he and Captain arrive home, they are sent to separate rooms and made to give their reports.

The Handler seems in a better mood than he had been when the Asset left. The Asset is hosed down and is already bracing himself for the Chair when the Handler directs him to another room.

Inside, the strike team stand waiting for him and even before belts are unbuckled and zippers are unzipped, the Asset knows what’s coming and knows he can only endure what will follow.

It is important, he tells himself, as they touch him and shove themselves inside him. The Handler would not let them do this, if it isn’t necessary for his functioning.

He stays as still as possible, stays as quiet as possible, but sometimes, he can’t help but jerk and moan. The Asset doesn’t know why this happens. It’s his fault; he wasn’t still enough.

He is choking, gagging. To distract himself, the Asset closes his eyes and reminds himself of the mission and its importance.

It is important—coarse laughter echoes in his ears, hurting him. Team morale must be maintained…he must be quiet.

Through the tangle of sweaty limbs, he overhears Sendler talking to Pierce.

“Now, really, this seems rather excessive,” Sendler says. “Surely there are less crude ways of accomplishing whatever this is supposed to accomplish.”

“He is my asset, and I will decide the course of its treatment. When it comes to your asset, you can treat it however you please.”

Sendler primly folds his hands. “I respect your sovereignty over the Asset. I was merely trying to give you some advice.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re really deeply concerned about my asset.” Pierce rolls his eyes. “Enough with the lectures; I’ve read your files. Don’t try to convince me that you really care that deeply about the Asset’s welfare. But if it offends your delicate sensibilities so much, I’ll make them stop.” He turns and faces the group. “Rumlow, take the Asset back to his cell.”

Rumlow mutters some curses under his breath. He grabs the Asset by his hair, then drags him into the cell, and shoves the Asset inside.

As the noise from the door slam dies down, the Asset blinks slowly, trying to find his bearings.

He is still aroused from his encounter with the strike team. Wanting this over and done with, the Asset finishes himself off using his metal hand. Then he begins creeping around on the floor, ever mindful of the red eye and the small square window.

With the window unblocked, the Asset can see a little more clearly than before.He runs his hands over the wall, feeling every scratch and crevice, until he finds the one from before, which contained those objects. He carefully slides them from the hole.

The items appear to be a pencil and an old toilet paper tube, which had been crushed and folded to fit into the crevice. There is some writing on the few thin, rough sheets left on the tube.

The Asset frowns. Captain is violating protocol. As his instructor, he should inform Sendler or the Handler about this. He unwinds the thin paper, so he can study the message written on it.

It is a simple, two sentence message: _I have a pencil. I can’t let them find it._

The Asset sets the tube down. He knows he is supposed to report this, but it no longer seems so simple. Memories of sparring and teaching with the Captain, the sounds of his screaming as the headpiece from the chair covers his face, him naked and bruised, slamming against the door to his cell…

He knows what he is supposed to do—hears the words screaming in his end—but instead he slides the pencil and the tube back into the wall where he found it.

The Asset sits on the concrete floor, breathing hard. He expects something to happen—the red eye had to have seen something—but nothing does. No one drags him into the Chair. Instead, his evening unfolds like most others. He is given a tray of food. Once he has eaten, there’s nothing left for the Asset but the dark. He sits, knees folded tight against his chest, until the window is shut and there’s nothing but darkness.


End file.
